


Week Two - Travel

by FriendlyCybird



Series: Stanuary 2019 [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, Homelessness, Prostitution, Stangst, Suicidal Thoughts, implied gang activity, literally call of the void, or more accurately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 16:03:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17369024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyCybird/pseuds/FriendlyCybird
Summary: In the span of 24 hours one March day in 1974, Stanley Pines experienced approximately six "firsts".





	Week Two - Travel

**Author's Note:**

> Because I fluffed too hard last week, enjoy this fucking mess for week two.

Stan knew he was in trouble when the air from his engine vents started to smell like cotton candy. He probably should’ve pulled over then and checked the engine, but he’d been less than three hours from his destination, and he’d been making good time. He could check the engine when he got there. He was still the better part of fifty miles away when the Stanleymobile sputtered to a halt in the middle of the highway. Some colorful curse words later and Stan had managed to coast onto the side of the road. 

His first impulse was to just try to do the fix himself. The puff of pure white smoke that billowed up when he opened the hood put an instant end to that fantasy. He was out of his depth. So then there was a tow truck and an assessment at a garage in the wrong town. A balding man in overalls named Mike outlined everything wrong with his car to Stan in a droning voice and Stan felt dread set in. Then the bills came, and dread gave way to panic.

They’d keep his car until he could pay them. What’s more, they’d charge him for keeping his car too. The irony was more bitter than the shitty free coffee Mike offered customers. Stan was days away from a big break, a job that could make him hundreds if not thousands of dollars overnight. He had a meeting scheduled tomorrow at one, fifty miles away, to get him started on the path to his fortune, but was currently too broke to get to it. He had three cups of the coffee and braced himself for his first night without even the shelter of his car. 

Hours later, just before sundown, sitting on a bench with his jacket pulled tight around him against the still chilly early March evening, Stan kicked his own ass back into gear. He wasn’t gonna give up. He wasn’t gonna turn into some hobo begging on a street corner. He was gonna make it. This opportunity had fallen right into his lap and he’d be damned if he let a little car trouble keep him from it. He needed cash? He’d find a way to make the cash. 

The next morning, the cash was on the end table beside the first real bed Stan had slept in for almost two years. It was in an envelope with the name “Oren” scrawled across the front in hurried, lazy script. That’d been the name Stan had given last night, he hadn’t wanted his real name attached to his only plan. Stan was grateful that morning. Not only had he woken up alone, but the owner of the house he’d slept in had left him enough money to cover the cost of his car repairs but also enough for a round trip bus ticket to his meeting and back. He’d utterly failed to negotiate for that, too nervous about the prospect of what he was offering. Yet here it was, enough for that and a good meal after. Or several crappy meals if he skimped, which, when did he not? 

Then he’d stood up and sharp soreness tore through him. He gritted his teeth, reminded himself that he was close to success and he would never have to do anything like this again. Then he walked out of the empty house. He was halfway across the lawn when he realized he absolutely should have stolen stuff while he was inside. It was too risky to go back. So he walked to the bus station, got on a bus, and made it to his meeting ten minutes late. 

Half an hour later he wished he hadn’t. 

The last twenty-four hours had been a lot of firsts for Stanley Pines. First time his car broke down, first time lying about his name, first time with a man, first time exchanging sex for money, first time on a greyhound bus, and first time having a gun pointed at him. 

Things had gone badly. They’d been off to a rocky start when he’d been late, but he’d smoothed that over with a few jokes at his own expense and soon the meeting was well underway. The sales part of the job, Stan discovered quickly, was a front for casing homes for robberies. He wasn’t totally sure how he felt about that, and made a few jokes to that end. One of them crossed a line. Then there was a gun and Stan spent just under a minute trying to talk them down before he ran. 

He just had nowhere to run too. 

He wanted to just get in his car and drive away at top speed. That had momentarily joined the ranks of wanting to go home, or sail the world with Ford though. Impossible. He needed another plan. At first, he just thought he’d hide out at the bus station, but two men in dark suits lurking by the far door had changed that plan. 

He killed an hour in an inconspicuous coffee shop with the best scone he’d had since he was a kid. You’ve got to enjoy the little things. It was an expensive little thing but it kept him at a table in this hole-in-the-wall long enough to come up with a plan. Not that it was much of a plan. Really, it was just the obvious. He walked. 

He tried to stay off the highway at first. Take a back road. Back roads don’t have much shoulder though, and half a dozen cars blew past him at a matter of inches away. What’s more, one of them cut around a ledge and it was a choice between leaning hard into a jagged rock wall every time, or standing on the edge of a cliff inches from a foot-high guardrail. Stan chose the later, and spent a lot of time looking over the edge of the cliff. By the third time the unwanted thought that he could always jump crossed his mind, he’d decided the highway might be a better choice after all. 

Stan didn’t know how long he was walking on the shoulder of the highway before he gave up and started sticking his thumb out when cars passed. He knew he was sore in a way he never had been before. The muscles in his thighs and ass and up through his lower back all protested the abuse he’d put them through. What with the walking and the running and the...and last night. Had that only been last night? He’d been so hopeful then that he’d have everything put together by this time today. He’d been so wrong. One dumb joke and he was out of a job and looking over his shoulder for someone who thought he’d picked up too much information on how their gig worked. 

The dark blue four-door sedan that actually stopped for him looked almost as old as Stan, and the woman driving it looked old enough to be his grandmother. “Where are you going, young man?” her voice had the high, wavering pitch that one would imitate when attempting to sound like an old lady. She was wearing a mostly pink muumuu and had her bright white hair done up fancy. Stan said the name of the nearby town where he’d left his car, and the woman waved to him, flapping her hand inwards at the wrist. “Hop in, hop in. I’ll get you there.” 

Stan did as asked and bit back a groan as he took the weight of his body off his legs and back, and swallowed a whine as that weight redistributed to his ass. When he trusted himself to open his mouth again, she’d been driving for several moments. “Thanks.” he breathed. 

“Sure thing, sure thing.” the lady responded. “Were you walking very long?” 

“Coupla hours.” 

“Oh my.” and the lady was off, jabbering away about how many miles a day she would walk in her youth, and the scoldings she would get for ending up so far from home. Stan listened to her talk the way he’d listen to the radio, letting the noise fill the air and sink into his bones. He’d make noises of agreement or astonishment here and there to keep her talking. It helped quiet the spinning thoughts he’d been alone with too long that day. 

Her name was Daisy Adams, and she drove through a McDonalds and got Stan a burger because he’d absentmindedly been honest about the last time he’d had more to eat than a small scone. She had four children and going on ten grandchildren, and she’d been going to the same town as Stan for a bible study. Stan wondered vaguely if she’d be helping him if she knew what he’d done the night before. She dropped him off at the garage, informed him that she’d be praying for him, and left to arrive late at her bible study. 

Stan paid his bill at the garage. He shook hands with Mike and had another cup of coffee. Then he got in his repaired car and drove away. 

A low, black, two-door pulled in as Stan pulled out, and a chill went down his spine. He spared a moment to hope it was nothing. To assume Mike would be okay. Then he pulled onto the highway, and did his best to never think of it again. Any of it. Meanwhile, it was time to put as much distance between himself and the last 24-hours as possible.


End file.
